Structural variations
by Garrae
Summary: Until he'd met her, he'd never really considered the infinite possibilities and subtle modulations of women's underwear. Until he'd met her, he'd never properly appreciated lingerie at all. Two shot, fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**1: External architecture**

He's always thought that he'd love her underwear. Speculated about it right from moment one, (what _do _hot cops wear under their clothes, he'd thought, and hoped she'd show him.) though he hadn't managed to spot any of it when she was leaning over with her palms flat and face furious, across an interrogation table. He thought he'd struck lucky (he'd even bought a lottery ticket that day) when she popped an extra button and showed an edge of scarlet lace at the top of the stairs to a then-dingy bar, a year after. His luck hadn't held for more than five minutes, but he'd nearly swallowed his tongue. And then he'd nearly swallowed hers, and only the way she'd chambered a round and a faint remaining trace of self-preservation had stopped him. A year later, it had still figured in his dreams: the blazing contrast between scarlet lace and cream skin. Then he'd kissed her and everything had changed.

Until he'd met her, he'd never really considered the infinite possibilities and subtle modulations of women's underwear. Sure, he'd appreciated it – frequently as a frame for his signature, in his hellion days as celebrity Casanova Castle, still, then, not long behind him; or as an attractive wrapping, but still a _wrapping_, to be removed and discarded so that he could play with the gift which had presented itself to him.

Until he'd met her, he'd never properly appreciated lingerie at all. He learned to discern her mood from tiny differences in her silhouette – he hopes she doesn't know it – under the t-shirt or button-down or soft clinging sweater: on the days when she started angry or on edge or upset it was a little less precise, a little less moulded, as if her underwear were softer to make up for her hard temper, or as if she didn't care enough to choose that day. On other days, days when her smile took on a flirtatious edge, she was more confident, and her profile formed to attract the eye. His eye.

Now, he can tell her mood and the likely pattern of the day before he's really awake, and her entire lingerie collection – and it is truly extensive: Kate Beckett is the Imelda Marcos of stunning lingerie – is residing, with its owner, in his loft. Permanently.

Most days, he can tell her mood from her underwear: soft plain cotton on the thankfully rare occasions when she's in some pain or discomfort (when the scar is hurting, he thinks privately, because he knows that sometimes, even now, it still does: mentally or physically); lustrous silk when she's planning to tease him all day; balconette bras when she's dressing to intimidate other women because then she feels absolutely powerful in her own female – not _feminine_ \- skin; whatever the hell she likes when she's planning to intimidate men because she doesn't need anything at all to help her do that; and sometimes some very special underwear sets when she wants to reduce him to drooling sludge in the shape of a man. Sometimes she lets him choose, and then as he dresses her in it he tells her all the ways he'll take it off her, and what he'll do with her and to her and for her as he does. They leave work on time, those days. Oh yes.

But right now he's pouting. It's not a sulk, because he never sulks. But there is a definite pout. Beckett got dressed before he was even awake, and in the bathroom with the door shut to boot. Which is just not on. He may not _like_ early, but he likes missing out on the sight of nearly-nude (or preferably totally nude) Beckett even less. She's deprived him of his morning treat. One of them. And since she's already left – which is _not fair_ – there is no chance of other morning treats for either of them that are not coffee and bear claws. Humph.

He makes himself pancakes for breakfast to cheer himself up, eats them in solitary splendour, showers, dresses and, still pouting, makes his way to the precinct. They will have _words_ about this business of dressing when he isn't watching, later on. She'll be sorry. In the most enjoyable possible way, she will be sorry. He'll forgive her, of course. After he's given her what she deserves. Mmmmm.

He wends his way to the bullpen, where Beckett is dressed extremely conservatively in dress pants and smooth button-down, and is deep in the day's work, head down.

But then she hears his step – this is what happens between them now, she _recognises_ his walk no matter how he tries to disguise it, even when she isn't listening at all and is deep in concentration – and looks up and smiles with that edge of smirk that always means _I know something you don't know_. He does it too, some days. When he smiles back and she adds an edge of sexuality and seduction he has the feeling she might have bought something new. As he slowly looks her up and down and her smile becomes ever more scorchingly seductive he's sure of it. Today is going to be exquisitely anticipatory, for both of them. He smiles with the predatory edge of an alpha wolf and starts to play the game.

There's a definite structural variation to her silhouette, he realises over the course of the exceedingly uncomfortable day. He can't quite put a finger on it – he can't put a finger on her, because it's the precinct and she will shoot him – but there is a difference. When they go to get lunch he tries to investigate but she takes his hand in hers so he can't even put an arm round her.

"Beckett, what are you wearing today?"

"A coat."

"Beckett," he whines, disguising his desire not at all. She smirks, and twines her fingers tighter through his.

"A blue button-down and navy dress pants," she says cheerfully.

"What else?" he says hopefully, and widens his eyes to his very best big blue puppy-dog plaintive look.

"Underwear." It hasn't worked. He tries the look again. Beckett chucks him under the chin as if he's five. "Poor baby," she says very insincerely. Then she grins evilly. "Or maybe nothing." He stumbles. It's the uneven sidewalk, not the sudden vision of Beckett bare under her shirt and pants. Really. She even evades his attempt to kiss her. Oh, she is going to pay for this.

"It's not fair," he mutters darkly.

"What's not fair?"

"You've bought something new and you haven't told me."

"Really? How would I do that without you noticing? Especially with your famous powers of observation."

"I don't know. But you have."

Beckett raises an eyebrow and eats her lunch. Smugly. She is going to _suffer_ for this. She'll beg him for relief. Oh, she will beg. And she knows it.

"I wanna know what's _under_ the shirt," he grumps.

"I want doesn't get," Beckett says smartly, and dodges his grab for her by dancing into the elevator. She's smirking, again.

She smirks all afternoon. Every time Castle tries smooth persuasion, she smirks and evades. Every time he tries pleading puppy-dog eyes, she smirks and pats his cheek. Every time he growls darkly into her ear when they're alone in the break room, she smirks and whispers truly _filthy_ suggestions for later into his ear. And every time they're alone, she makes sure that she's holding his hands. By the end of the day, he is wound up to boiling point and pulling her into a windowless room, locking the door and showing her why teasing him all day is a really bad – or really good – idea hasn't left his mind for more than ten seconds at a time for the last hour.

"Catch," she says, and tosses him the car keys, which he automatically catches.

"W-what?"

"Go get the car, Castle. You can drive. I'll just tidy up before I leave." He? He gets to drive? He _never_ gets to drive her car. He bounces out the bullpen and is already turning the key in the ignition when he stops. That sneaky, conniving, _witch_.

Said sneaky, conniving witch appears in the passenger seat. Smirking.

"You…you…you… You did this _deliberately!_"

"Did what? You always want to drive, and today I thought" – she licks her lips, slowly – "you deserved a treat." She follows up by nibbling on her lip. "Let's go home, Castle."

"You deliberately let me think I'd get to drive."

"You are driving," Beckett points out, innocently.

"And if I'm driving I have to keep both hands on the wheel or you'll arrest me."

"Yep," Beckett says, happily.

"I wanna know what you're wearing," he pouts.

"Yep," Beckett says again, even more happily.

"And if I've got both hands on the wheel I can't touch you," he whines.

"Yep," Beckett says for a third time, delighted by her own cleverness.

"When we get home you are going to regret this, Beckett," Castle growls deeply. "You think I can't tease you until you beg me to stop?"

"Funny," she replies airily, "I thought you were just about at the point of begging me to _start_."

He flicks a glance at her, which has changed in the last few minutes from plaintive boyishness to his best _wait till I get you home_ look. Beckett wriggles. She surely knows what that look means by now. Her eyes have begun to darken already. Out the corner of his eye he spots her opening one button. _Only_ one. Just enough to show the very start of her cleavage. _Not _enough to show him whatever it is she's bought. Well, he'll find out soon enough.

He doesn't chase her to the elevator. That would be undignified. He merely walks. The working day is done, and now they can start the game _properly_. Beckett's had her turn, and now it's his. She has, he knows, known exactly what she's doing and what she's inviting him to do all day. Well, he's got some thoughts on that. A few… refinements… to their usual play. They had, after all, promised never to be boring.

The loft is empty. Beckett clearly knew that it would be, or arranged for it to be. Castle had expected that, too, right from her first sensual smile when he walked into the bullpen. A planned seduction is very… satisfying. He loves it when she plans their evenings: she isn't good at words, but her actions show him everything she doesn't say.

And then the door clicks shut and he can stop focusing on anything other than Beckett. He reaches for her, fast as a cobra striking, catches her against him, still in her coat.

"Tease," he rasps. "Well, now it's my turn." He runs one firm hand into her hair and tips her head to the correct angle to invade and conquer her mouth: sure, hard, a little rough and a lot demanding, wholly possessive. She's instantly responsive under the kiss. He continues kissing, deep and devouring, till she's softened against him, till the teasing smirk is wholly gone and all that's left is sheer desire and the mutual understanding that he'll set the plays tonight. If he'd wound her up all day, then she would. But this evening is his.

More kisses, so she's making sexy little noises and pushing against him: perfectly, beautifully receptive: the soft to his hard. They fit so well: they fill each other's voids and spaces: his stability and her ferocity; his imagination and her logic. Together, they're not just more, they're everything.

Finally, he lifts; leaving her dark-eyed, dazed and flushed; breathing harder. He smiles, dark and feral.

"My turn," he murmurs again, sexuality slinking through his voice. "I'm going to stay in here. You're going to go into our bedroom, strip down to your pretty new underwear and heels and come back out here – like you've been planning all day."

Her eyes widen. She's often given him a show, but only in the bedroom.

"You want a show?" she husks, dripping suggestion from each word, not yet moving, coat still on. "I can give you a show right here." She raises her hands to the fastenings of her coat.

"No. Do as I" – he nearly says _ask_, but he recognises her mood – "told you. I want you to model for me."

Beckett runs the very tip of her tongue over her lips so that they part and glisten damply, and then turns smoothly with the grace of a catwalk queen. Castle removes his own coat and jacket and lounges on the couch to wait.

He's ready for nearly anything when the study door starts to open. Anything, in fact.

Anything except what he sees.

_Ohfuckohfuckohfuck._ _That_ is a structural variation on sin and sex that he'd never imagined on Beckett. _That_ turns Beckett's already glorious body into sexuality's equivalent of Michelangelo's David: utter perfection.

Some seconds later he remembers to close his mouth.

And then she moves, and all thought and function is wholly lost. She prowls like a leopard and flows like the sea: as smooth and powerful and dangerous as either. He drowned long since, without a struggle. He can only stare.

It's cream. She never wears cream: pure white or bold colours to stand out against her skin; stark black or emerald green; deep blue or blood-crimson. This is cream. For a moment, that's all he registers.

No wonder she'd worn a button-down and tailored, slightly loose dress pants. Anything else, he'd have spotted the differences in an instant – and Interrogation One would have been put to a use which is strictly not permitted. He doesn't even recognise the noise coming from his throat. It's not exactly a growl, or a groan. It's some primitive noise of ownership and lust and _fuck she's mine_.

"Stop," he orders. She's close enough for him to see the detail and not close enough to pounce. It's a – his modernity keeps trying to say _basque_, but his brain is saying _corset_ – corset. She is wearing a very modern version of an old-fashioned silk corset, with stockings which are surely also silk and a very minimal pair of cream silk panties. And black stilettos. She's a wet dream walking, a weapon of mass destruction. No heterosexual male would resist her commands.

A cream silk corset. Delicate bows at the front, less than demi-cup bra, pushing up her breasts and laying them out, only just covered, perfectly presented for whatever he might lavish on them. Her waist tiny, emphasised far more than usual, the fabric flaring out over her hips. It's the very epitome of an hourglass figure. Four slim garter straps, attached to the stockings.

"Turn around," he rasps. His voice isn't working very well.

His voice stops working at all.

It laces up the back. There is no gap at all. She is poured into it as if she were molten gold into a form. Some small fragment of instinctual brain prods him till he notices that her breathing is very slightly shallower than usual. He knows that sometimes she likes to be restricted. Since they came in, then, she's tightened those laces, because she would never have had pulled them as tight as that at work. She's tied up, without being tied up. This is so far past arousing it's indescribable.

It takes him four tries to force out words. "Come here." She does, with a slinky, sensual sashay that leaves him barely in control of his body. His body is screaming _take her_. His brain is almost dead. One last tiny flicker of life in it says _reduce her to a puddle of sensation._ He makes a monumental effort and recovers a shred of suavity; waits till she's arrived by him, and then looks her up and down again, very slowly, all the heat and desire and lust and love that he feels on full display. She flicks a fast glance down over him, certainly not missing the visible evidence of his arousal bulging against his pants, and acquires the satisfied smile of the cat who's face-down in the cream.

"Like what you see?" she purrs.

"_So_ much. You dressed up, all for me." He reaches out and runs his hands lightly over her sides, not holding her. She wriggles a little. "You're all wet, just for me. Dressed like that, I can see just how excited you are." His face is hot and intent, now. "You're framed, like a picture." His hands slide over her again, a little more firmly, pulling her closer. He leans in and swiftly flicks his tongue over the upper curve of her breast, and she squirms in his grip. "Bound in. It's just a little tight, isn't it? Just a little constraining? The panties are a darker shade of cream, now. "Like when I hold you close, don't let you out my arms, stop you taking charge…"

He's grasping her firmly, now, one arm locked around her, still pulling her forward. The other hand slides between her legs. "Definitely all wet." He slides the soft fabric a little side-to-side, listens to the gasp, the different sound of her breathing with the slight tightness of the corset around her ribs and waist. "I don't think you need these any more," he decides, and removes them.

"You're overdressed, Castle," Beckett tries. He's pretty sure what she wants. Him. Now. Well, she's made him wait, all hot and bothered, so it seems only fair to return the favour.

"You've teased all day. It's my turn," he replies reasonably, and lets his fingers slide through slick heat. She emits a little gasp that's tending to a mewl, which turns to an outright moan when he puts his mouth back on her breast and starts to turn her on. His mobile lips tug gently, and when that's left her nipples hard and her flesh a little coloured and swollen he sucks harder and nips and grips her waist, narrower than he's used to, to stop her falling into him just right now. They'll get to that, later. Right now, he's going to turn her to liquid under his hands and mouth, and she's already halfway there. He leaves the neat mounds on their cream supports and pulls her head to his, possessively plundering and bringing her ever closer till she's forced to straddle him, knees on the cushions either side of his thighs.

She certainly isn't objecting to the position, rubbing against him and trying to take friction against the hot weight. He lifts her without effort, just enough that she can't get what she wants without his co-operation. "Wait a little. Anticipation is the best sauce." She growls at him. It's wholly spoilt by the moan in the middle as he slides his hand back between her legs and then lets her body drop again.

He loves knowing he can do this to her: turn her hot and soaked in minutes; that she's so confident and easy with him now that she'll hand over control and herself; that she totally trusts him to keep her secure whatever the game.

"I've got a game for us, Beckett." She squirms over his hand, which is stopping her grinding against him.

"I don't wanna play unless it involves you _getting me off_. Now." That piece of insolence deserves an answer, but not in words. He moves the tips of his fingers very precisely and listens as Beckett loses her words. Which is also only fair, since she deprived him of his only a few moments ago.

"All in good time. I've got hours of your teasing to make up for." He could just keep teasing her till she's screaming and threatening to shoot him. The thought is very pleasurable – has been very pleasurable, other nights. But maybe there's a better way.

* * *

_Some fluff in two chapters, for everyone. Always delighted to know what you all think._

_This was inspired by a phrase in the property section of Friday's broadsheet newspaper. I'm fairly sure they didn't mean this. _


	2. Chapter 2

**2: Interior design**

He plays with her some more, kissing her hard, fingering her wickedly and swallowing the noises until he knows she's close. Then he lifts her again and releases himself and brings her down on him and then she does cry out. She feels so good around him: tight and hot and wet and being inside Kate Beckett is the nearest he'll get to Heaven on this earth so it's just as well he can do it for the rest of their lives. She's so perfect, and she's moving on him and he's so close and she is and _Now Castle please _and _Yes mine now come for me _and she does and he does and _fuck_ it's always mindbending.

He holds her tightly for a few moments, waiting for them both to come down a little. If they're both off the edge, they've got – he's got – a lot more options. Not socially acceptable options, however. Oh no. None of these options would be socially acceptable at all.

Beckett's happily snuggled against him, not that she has a great deal of choice. He has no intention of letting her go any time soon. He may love it when she plans his seduction but he isn't going to let her off lightly – oops, that should say _get_ her off lightly – when she sneaked it all past him. And he is _definitely_ going to find out how she got a delivery like that without him knowing. Also the place she ordered it from. There might be other colours…

He snaps back to reality when Beckett hums contentedly (he's the only one who ever causes her to make that noise) and curls closer into his chest. The silk glides against him, as delicate as her skin. Tight round her as she's laced it, now he's in a better state to observe, her breasts are close to spilling out and over the lace-edged cups.

"Stand up, Beckett."

"Why?" she flirts. It's perfectly obvious she knows why.

"I want you to. Stand up." When she doesn't, he lifts her away from his lap and puts her on her feet. "Now I'm going to take a _proper_ look at this decoration."

He runs a featherweight touch along the neckline, fractions away from her skin. "It emphasises all the right curves," he says, syrup-soft. "Draws the eye to the perfect structure underneath." He retraces the path of his fingers with his tongue. "Frames the picture." His hand slips southward. "The little bows are very cute." Ah – and they're covering fastenings. Good to know, for later.

His naughty, questing fingers slide round her waist and turn her. "And then there's the lacing. Enclosing you, trapping you. Tying you up to be presented, to be handed over to someone else. Me." He slips a finger under the laces at the bottom where they're knotted, and runs a firm hand over her ass. "Next time you wear this I'll tie them." It isn't a request, it's a promise.

He turns her back round to face him and slides his hand down further. "It's very carefully constructed to leave all the …significant… areas open to exploration." He explores a little further, to prove the point. Beckett likes his explorations, if her commentary is anything to go by. A little limited in vocabulary, to be sure, but emphatic. "It's much more interesting than a garter belt." Which up until now he had considered the next best thing to heaven, when displayed on Kate Beckett. His definition has changed, just this evening.

His hand drops away to play with the tops of her stockings. It's not a popular change of emphasis. He tuts at her when she swats at his hand. "Not nice, Beckett."

"You're not nice. Play _properly_."

He smirks. She growls, with an undertone of playfulness, and takes a swaying step out of range, smiling in a very _now-what-are-you-gonna-do_ way. Castle's not impressed by this change in the game. He doesn't want to play kiss-chase, just kiss. Et cetera. Lots of et cetera.

"Come back."

"Nope." She takes another sashay in the wrong direction. Castle stands up, takes one long stride and whisks her up over his shoulder, caveman style. It seems… appropriate. To him, anyway. Beckett doesn't seem to feel the same way, though her words, which are wholly unreasonably _vile_, aren't matched by her actions, which mostly consist of squirming and trying to slide back down his front. She's failing miserably. He doesn't often exert his far greater strength, but tonight is definitely the right time. He turns his head slightly, finds the smooth curve of her ass in range, and nips it. She squeaks, and wriggles.

"If you wriggle much more I'll drop you," he points out, laughter edging his tone. "Most undignified." He takes a few more steps towards the bedroom. She's still trying to escape, and promising him mayhem and murder when she gets free. "If you bang your head on the door frames that won't be my fault," he points out in an infuriatingly saintly tone. The wriggling stops abruptly. He takes the opportunity to undo her heels before he forgets. Last time he forgot he ended up with _very_ painful scratches on his ass.

"When you put me down I am going to kill you. Picking me up like some Neanderthal caveman…" she trails off in a mewl as he adds a nicely-judged stroke through some very sensitive areas.

"Nuh-uh. You won't kill me. You'd be sorry if you did. You wouldn't get any more of this." He strokes her again as they hit the bedroom and then drops her flat on her back on the bed. "Now, are you going to stay put and play nice, or are you going to keep being naughty and trying to escape?" He wiggles his eyebrows like a Victorian villain, and imprisons her with a muscular arm over her midriff. Beckett smirks back up at him with mischief and hot desire painted across her face.

"Guess," she grins, and flicks a quick, insinuating glance sideways to the nightstand. His eyes follow.

Ah. _That _game. Oooohhhh. She really has planned this out to please him, hasn't she? If he weren't so aroused he'd be dissolving in a soft pile of slush and love.

"You're not going to stay put? I guess I'll just have to make sure you can't escape. What you're wearing is definitely a felony. A crime against modesty. An incitement to disorder. And now I've arrested you," he purrs darkly, "and it's time to put you in cuffs." With his free hand he takes the soft leather handcuffs she's left on the nightstand and runs them through the discreet ring, hidden by pillows; leans a little more firmly on her as she makes a teasing, unconvincing, effort to escape his arm and evade the cuffs.

"There," he murmurs dangerously as he closes them. "Mine. No more trying to get away." Beckett smiles up at him seductively and quite deliberately bites her lip. It's an invitation he never even tries to resist, any more. Never has to resist, any more. He knows the differences in the ways she bites her lip and what each various nibble means. He leans down and kisses her, framing her face with his hands to match the way the corset frames her body, curving his palms and fingers to mould around her chin, her fine-cut cheekbones. "All mine."

"Now you've arrested" – she pours dirty sexuality over that word – "me, and cuffed" – more filthily insinuating tones – "me" – she pauses, and licks her lips wetly, twines her tongue over them – "what are you going to do?"

He loves a challenge, and she's just issued one.

"Why, Beckett. You don't think felons get to know their future the moment they're arrested, do you? They have to go to trial, first. Have their crimes listed, and assessed. Sentenced individually." He smirks. "Perhaps you should listen to the evidence against you." He always enjoys this: talking her up as much as touching her up; she's always loved the words right along with the sensations. Her eyes are dark, her lips full and bee-stung swollen still, the delicate flush of desire drawn along the sharp planes of her face. He sits up, a little away from her, positioned where he can see, or touch, all of her lithe body.

"Let's do this chronologically. We'll start with your earliest crimes: a crime of deception."

"Deception? I haven't deceived you." She's still teasing, slightly sardonic.

"You deceived me into thinking that you were wearing some of your existing underwear. You got dressed where I couldn't see you, before I was really awake."

"You could have woken. _If_ you were that interested. Not my fault you sleep heavily. You snooze, you lose," she says smugly.

"I did wake. You not only deceived me, you deprived me of my property. That's theft, Beckett."

"Deprived you of your property? _What_ property?"

"You."

It's just as well her hands are… unavailable. She squawks and complains and fails to say anything coherent for some time, while Castle sniggers evilly.

"Now, about your sentence for theft… I think that you should make reparations." He's growling gently. "I'll take something from you." There's a very slow, lazy smile. Beckett matches it, stretches gently and ripples her figure all the way to her toes. "I could take away this sliver of sin in fabric form." She smiles more widely. "But I won't. I think I'll take your speech instead."

He starts not by touching her but by removing his entirely unnecessary shirt and pants, full in her view, without scrupling to hide well-cut musculature. Then he spends some time simply running his gaze over her, lingering at her breasts for a little time, not at all hiding his appreciation of the view, then wandering slowly down to the glistening between her legs.

"Like the view?" Beckett husks, shifting slightly and completely comfortable in her skin.

"Mmmm. Definitely." He sits back down on the wide bed, idly playing at the neckline without achieving anything significant. He's going to take it slowly. His finger dips under and finds a nipple, rubs and then rolls within the confines of the fabric and boning. It's a little difficult, since her deeper breathing pushes her entire chest tight into the form-fitting curves. Still, he's not going to loosen it for her. It's far too pretty. He suddenly _sees_, in a way he's only ever poorly imagined, the exact definition of a swelling bosom. He wonders how any Georgian or Regency male ever achieved coherent speech, still less action. No wonder there was chaperoning. Just as well there isn't now.

He plays a little more, till deep breathing is replaced by soft moans and less soft suggestions that he might be a bit more adventurous. He ignores that. It's more awkward to ignore Beckett's foot, which – _how_ did she bend like that? – is prodding at his back and ribs in a significant fashion indicating _get-on-with-it-Castle_. He picks the foot off his waist, examines it closely – and then runs his finger up and down the arch where he knows she's really, really ticklish and makes her wriggle frantically and shriek. Her corseted bosom (it's such a gloriously evocative word: bosom) heaves and swells gorgeously. The imprecations she's casting at him are not gorgeous. The correct word would be _profane_.

He takes a little pity on her, and slides his hands down her sides, exploring the construction, finding that it's composed of many thin strips – he supposes that they must be plastic, now, though he knows they used to be whalebone, or even steel – each in their own thinly padded casing, stitched into the widths of silk. It feels like the silk is over something, but he'll investigate that later. Nikki might wear one, for Rook.

His touch roams lower, and runs along the lower edge, dancing under the – ah, satin – binding. Beckett tries another round of instruction cut with imprecation, which has no effect whatsoever. Well, except that she still appears to have the power of speech and thought. He lies down beside her, threads an arm under her neck to turn her face to his, dances his fingers south of the front dip of the fabric, through soft soaked heat and kisses her hard as his fingers take her and slide and curl and thrust so she curves and arches off the bed as he finds the spot that sends her soaring, strokes and slides – and stops.

She is very satisfyingly devoid of words. Not silent, though, nor still. He waits a few beats, cuddling her in, (whatever games they play, cuddling is still more important than he could ever hope to explain. Perhaps it's because good sex is good sex, but love is far more than that) and waiting for her to quieten.

"I think that deals with the theft," he rumbles into her hair. "It still leaves the deception, and the incitement, though."

Beckett mutters something that doesn't sound polite at all, and tries to turn over and hook a leg around his waist to gain some leverage. He turns her firmly back and spoons her against him, tightly enough that she can't wriggle into any sort of desirable alignment without his active participation.

"I think the only proper consequence of incitement is to incite you," he rasps, "to begging." _That _mutter sounded very like _unfair big bully just 'cause you have no self-control_ and then abruptly alters to _fuck Castle_ when his fingers find the nerve centre between her legs and tease her.

"That's not polite, Beckett." He slips and strokes and glides some more and holds her so she can't turn and instead stays writhing against him (which is unreasonably difficult to cope with because _all_ he wants to do is part her wider and simply slide slowly into her again and make them both feel unbelievably good because from behind he has freedom to touch her as well and he knows _exactly_ how to touch her to send her flying, shattered and remade.

But not yet. When she brings the cuffs out it always means she wants the wait, the edge, the long, slow evening where he'll be allowed to play on her body as if it were a fine instrument. Some nights, she plays him: takes him in her mouth and makes him plead; strokes him and feathers him, takes his weight in her hands and leaves him groaning and breathless and rides him till he's wholly hers. He's always been hers, he just didn't realise for a time. Some nights, it's soft and gentle and romantic, a statement of closeness and love; some nights, when the case has been bad, it's hard and rough and primitive, reminding them both that they're alive, and together, and _them_.

So he strokes and rolls, takes his touch away and dances through wet heat and flickers naughtily in and out and back again to _incite_ her further up and she's soaked and whimpering and soon, soon she'll be putty in his talented hands: as much his as he is hers.

"Castle," she whimpers, unable to catch enough breath to say more, desperate and frantic and increasingly difficult to hold close, her skin as silk-slippery as her clothing. "Castle, _please_."

"Please?" he asks lazily, knowing perfectly well what she means.

"Stop playing, _please_. I want you in me." He moves against her, making it clear that his readiness is not the barrier to her wants.

"Do you?" He slips one finger into her, and slides his thumb gently just where it does most good. She bucks wildly in his arms.

"_Yes._"

"That's nice," he says blandly, and lets his fingers do the talking for a moment, till there's nothing but a long string of _please Castle fuck stop please Castle don't stop please please please_ and then nothing intelligible at all. When he feels her inner muscles clenching around his fingers he withdraws them and waits again.

"Do you know how I felt all day?" he asks conversationally. "I knew all day that you were wearing something special. You got me all wound up and wouldn't even let me put a finger on you. You knew exactly what you were doing, and then you went and made me drive so I had to wait till we came home. I've been hard all day and all you did was smirk and snicker. How d'you feel now?" He's purring into her ear, soft and tempting and sensual and smooth and dangerous. "Still think that was a good plan, Beckett?" His voice drops, twines around her and wraps her in his spell, moves from purr to feral growl.

"I don't think it was. It hasn't got you what you wanted, has it? Now you're all revved up with no place to go." He rubs the top of her stocking against her thigh. "Sexy as these are, I think it's time to lose them. I wouldn't want them torn when I hold you apart."

He sits up and slowly unclips and rolls the stockings off, moving down the bed as he does, gripping her elegant ankles firmly enough to stop her wriggling when he passes the back of her knee where she is just a tad ticklish. Nothing like her feet, though. Those are thoroughly ticklish. He proves it, as each stocking comes off and slithers to the floor. He can only ever tickle her feet when her hands are tied, because otherwise she is quite capable of killing him with them despite – and probably during – the ridiculously girly shrieking. And if he doesn't hang on to _both_ ankles her flailing free foot would probably break a rib or two. It might even be accidental.

She's watching him suspiciously – at least as suspiciously as she can manage when she's dazed with lust and panting and open and he's got his hands on her legs and is running them up the inside of her slim calves, her knees, the satin of her inner thigh, uncovered. He holds her gaze, dilated pupils no doubt matched in his own face, smiles lazily and wolfishly, and, when she's already squirming under the pressure of his and her own desire, hopelessly wet, now and forever she's the prettiest picture he's ever seen or is ever like to see.

Finally, he leans down, spreads her wide, and settles to feast on her: very nearly his favourite pastime. She tastes of seduction and sex, and he's addicted to that: but her mouth always tastes like heaven, and home, and that's what he's in love with: somehow, she's home for him. He runs his tongue along her, slow start, but she's so high already it doesn't take much and he moves on to some more direct stimulation and pretty soon she's twisting and crying out and then begging him to _stop Castle _interspersed with _don't stop Castle_ – how is he supposed to know what to do? – but on balance he thinks it's time to stop.

He raises his head, looks up the length of her body, licks one last line right through the centre of her core to make her scream and then rises over her to undo her hands, run one of his into her hair and kiss her mouth deeply and appreciatively, then slide home and fill her as she'd like.

She's so ready he barely moves before she's breaking around him and crying his name and dragging him close and over her and simply over. He collapses over her, covering her, keeping her warm and safe, rewarded with her arms around him, holding him tight to her. He never stays there for long, quick to roll over and have her draped over him, to pet her and be petted and cuddle softly together.

There's only one thing that isn't quite right. His nimble fingers undo the knotted laces at the dimple in her back, loosen them. Then he slides her off him, deaf to her protest, and delicately undoes the front fastenings under their pretty, decorative bows to peel it away from her skin.

"I thought you liked it," Beckett murmurs, as he pulls her back into his embrace.

"I do," Castle agrees. "I surely do." He pauses.

"But I love you best without any structural variations at all."

_**Fin**_

* * *

_Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. Reviews do mean a lot._

_May I call on the collective wisdom of the board? If I were to go on holiday to New Orleans, round about Easter, what would you suggest I see or do?_


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